The door closed on Leya.

Not slam. Not shudder.

But the quiet kind of finality that shattered in more vigorously than rage ever could.

She did not cry.

Not as she went down the corridor.

Not as she went by the gilded mirrors that had unsettled her with faces she barely recognized.

Not even when she arrived at her door.

She bolted it.

Fair and right. Top bolt. Bottom latch. Handle in position.

And she just stood there for a moment or so, leaning against the cold wood, ...